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EDELWEISS 



AN ALPINE RHYME 



BY 



MARY LOWE DICKINSON 



NEW YORK 

1876 




^"fi" 



•«. 



Copyright, 

1876, 

By Mary Lowe Dickinson. 



In memory of the loving kindness that has wel- 
comed them one by one, the author dedicates these 
verses to the friends at whose request they have been 
gathered together. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

I. — Edelweiss 7 

II. — Thanksgiving , 14 

III. — If We had but a Day 16 

IV. — " Gather up the Fragments." 18 

V. — To a Friend " on the Nile." 22 

VI. — Forgiven 24 

VII. — Praise 27 

VIII.— Why ? 28 

IX. — A Picture , 30 

X. — A Picture 33 

XI. — Dead 35 

XII. — " If Thy Right Hand Offend Thee " 37 

XIII. — Toil and Rest 39 

XIV. — Two and One 41 

XV. — Among the Saints 43 

XVI. — Endurance 49 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XVII.— The Prodigal's Return 5 l 

XVIII.— Mary Bearing the Doves to Sacrifice. 54 

XIX.— Alone 57 

XX. — Light in Darkness 59 

XXI.— A Prayer 6l 

XXII.— Venetia Lieth Dead 63 

XXII T.— Venetia Wakes Again 67 

XXIV.— True Freedom 1° 

XXV.— The Last of the Summer 72 

XXVI.— The Lord is my Shepherd 75 

XXVIL— The Every-day Sorrow : . 77 

XXVIII.—" A Lamp to Thy Feet, and a Light to 

Thy Path." 80 

XXIX. — Nothing Lost 82 

XXX.— The Kneeling Place 84 

XXXI.—" The Bells of Lynn." 85 

XXXII.— A Wish 89 

XXXIIL— A Prayer 9° 

XXXIV.— Thanks for Flowers 9 1 

XXXV.— Laborare est Orare 93 

XXXVI. — My Mother's Birthday 9 s 

XXXVIT.— A Mother's Question 102 



I. 

EDELWEISS. 



BY Alpine road, beneath an old fir tree, 
Two children waited patiently for hours ; 
One slept, and then the elder on her knee 
Made place for baby head among her flowers. 

And to the strangers climbing tired and slow, 
She called, "Buy roses, please," in accents mild, 

As if she feared the echo, soft and low, 

Of her own voice might wake the sleeping child. 

And many came and passed, and answered not 
The pleading of that young uplifted face, 

While, in each loiterer's memory of the spot, 
Dwelt this fair picture full of patient grace. 



ED EL WEISS. 

And one took offered flowers with gentle hand, 
And met with kindly glance the timid eyes, 

And said, in tones that children understand, 
" My little girl, have you the Edelweiss? " 



ii. 

"Oh, not to-day, dear lady," said the child. 

' ' I cannot leave my little sister long ; 
I cannot carry her across the wild ; 

She grows large faster than my arms grow strong. 

" If you stay on the mountain all the night, 
At morning I will run across the steep, 

And get the mossy flowers ere sun is bright, 
And while my baby still is fast asleep." 

"Your baby, little one ? " " Oh, yes," she said. 

' ' Yonder, you see that old stone tower shine ? 
There, in the church-yard, lies my mother, dead, 

And since she died the baby has been mine." 



EDEL WEISS. 

Soft shone the lady's eyes with tender mist, 
And ever, as she pressed toward fields of ice, 

She pondered in her heart the half-made tryst 
With this young seeker of the Edelweiss. 



in. 

At night, safe sheltered in the convent's fold, 
Where white peaks stand in ermined majesty ; 

Where sunsets pour great throbbing waves of gold 
Across the white caps of a mountain sea. 

At morn, with face subdued and reverent tone, 
Slow winding down, with spirit hushed and awed, 

As from a vision of the great white throne, 
Or vail half lifted from the face of God. 

The blessing of the hills her soul had caught 
Made all the mountain-track a path of prayer, 

Along which angel forms of loving thought 

Led to the trysting-place ; — no child was there ! 



IO EDELWEISS. 

The wind was moaning in the old fir tree, 
The lizards crawling o'er the mossy seat ; 

But no fair child, with baby at her knee, 
And in the mold no track of little feet. 



No faded flowers strewing the stunted grass ; 

No young voice singing clear its woodland strain 
No brown eyes lifted as the strangers pass ; 

A murmur in the air, like far-off rain ; 

A black cloud, creeping downward swift and still, 
Answered her listening heart, a far-off knell, 

Almost before there swept along the hill 
The slow, deep tolling of the valley bell. 

Once more there drifted 'cross the face the mist ; 

Once more, with trembling soul and tender eyes, 
She hurried on to keep the half-made tryst, 

To meet the child, to claim the Edelweiss. 



ED EL WEISS. 1 1 

Nearer she came and nearer every hour, 

Her heart-beat answering quick the deep bell's call ; 

It led he-r to the shadow of the tower, 

The shining tower beside the church-yard wall. 



v. 

She found her there — a cross rose at her feet, 
And burning tapers glimmered at her head; 

Her white hands clinging still to blossoms sweet, 
And God's peace on her face ; the child was dead ! 

Quaint carven saints and martyrs stood around. 

Each clasped the symbol of his sacrifice ; 
But this fair child, in saintly sweetness crowned, 

Held, as they held the cross, her Edelweiss. 



Early that morn a shepherd, on the height, 
In cleft of rocks sought shelter from the cold, 

And there he found this lamb, all still and white, 
Entered already to the heavenly fold. 



1 2 EDEL WEISS. 

The Edelweiss grew on that rocky steep ; 

The brave child-feet had climbed too fast and far j 
And so had come to her this blessed sleep, 

This blessed waking 'neath the morning star. 



The light within the little church grew dim, 
And, ere the last gleam faded in the west, 

While childish voices sang the vesper hymn, 
A lady, with a babe upon her breast, 

Crept silently adown the shadowy aisle, 

And, kneeling, bathed with tears the hand of ice, 
And laid it on the babe, and saw it smile, 

And whispered, "I have named her Edelweiss ! " 



When one more day had seen its shadows fall, 
That old stone tower gleaming in the sun, 

And the great olive by the western wall, 

Shaded two humble graves where had been one. 



EDEL WEISS. 

And by and by, above the dear child's head, 
Arose a little stone with quaint device. 

When summer blossoms died around the bed, 
A marble hand grasped still the Edelweiss. 



13 



THA A VvSGI VING. 

II. 
THANKSGIVING. 

TRUE I have lost my treasures ; yet to-day 
I cannot, grieving, pray, 
Mourning the joys of which I am bereft. 
I lift mine eyelids up, instead, and say : 
Behold how much is left. 

Still soft along the sky the white clouds run ; 

Still shines the blessed sun ; 
Still voice of running water greets my ear ; 
Still cross my twilights stars gleam one by one, 

And I can see and hear — 

Can see the warm light on the shaded ways, 

Can hear the birds' sweet praise, 
And oft the wayward wind among the leaves, 
And the low drip of rain in clouded days 
Upon my cottage eaves. 



THA NIC SGI VING 



*5 



So, while summer blossoms clothe the ground, 

Or falls the happy sound 
Of little children's voices in the air, 
I still shall find the world with sweetness crowned, 

And comfort everywhere ; 

Still find a grateful song for moans of pain, 

A gentle triumph strain, 
To calm the sadness of my halting verse. 
Under each seeming loss a certain gain ; 

A blessing in each curse. 

Independent. 



1 6 IF IVE HAD BUT A DAY. 

III. 

IF WE HAD BUT A DAY. 

WE should fill the hours with, the sweetest things, 
If we had but a day ; 
We should drink alone at the purest springs 

In our upward way ; 
We should love with a life-time's love in an hour, 

If the hours were few ; 
We should rest, not for dreams, but for fresher power 
To be and to do. 

We should guide our wayward or wearied wills 

By the clearest light ; 
We should keep our eyes on the heavenly hills, 

If they lay in sight ; 
We should trample the pride and the discontent 

Beneath our feet ; 
We should take whatever a good God sent, 

With a trust complete. 



IF WE HAD BUT A DA Y. 

We should waste no moments in weak regret, 

If the day were but one ; 
If what we remember and what we forget 

Went out with the sun ; 
We should be from our clamorous selves set free, 

To work or to pray, 
And to be what the Father would have us be, 

If we had but a day. 



17 



1 8 GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS. 

IV. 

"GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS." 

John vi. i 2. 

DEAR Shepherd, who of old the listeners led 
Among the Galilean hills afar, 
Who, when the even was come, the fainting fed, 
While all the west with sunset hues flushed red, 

Grew dark, then brightened 'neath the evening star ; 
My soul, a listener through the fading light, 
Yet hears thy voice, borne to me from the height. 

The voice they heard, who, hasting, homeward pressed, 
Thoughtless, perhaps, though strengthened by thy 
hand, 

Of greater feasts where they had been thy guests, 

Of living bread thy lips for them had blessed, 
Of truths we all are slow to understand, 

Till, fainting and athirst, and bowed with pain, 

We turn to seek the Master's face again. 



GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS. 19 

' ' Gather the fragments up ! '" O soul of mine, 

It matters not that in no Judean land 
Thy ways were cast, yet have thy bread and wine 

Come ever surely from the Master's hand ; 

And even for thee were spoken this command, 
To gather up — for him — the broken bread, 
That from thy hand his hungry might be fed. 

Troubled I hear, and, blending with thy tone, 
I catch the voices of the multitude, 

Who struggle each with each, or faint alone, 
Or, cursing, cry for water and for food, 
Or question, " Who shall show us any good ? " 

The aged moan ; the child-hands are outspread 

For the lost fragments of my daily bread. 

Backward I look, beside youth's laughing stream, 
Over the meadows bathed by hope in light ; 

Through the green pastures, brightened by love's dream, 
And to the valleys, wrapped in sorrow's night ; 
Or on the mountain summits cold and white, 

Seeking for fragments of a broken life 

For these, now fainting in the place of strife. 



20 GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS. 

But, Lord, the stream of youth ran to the sea, 
And left no blossoms growing by its side; 

And I have seen the hope-light fade and flee 

From the green pastures where my loves have died, 
And where my sorrows hide; but tears abide 

And blood-marks trace the track o'er mountain sod 

By which my tired soul sought to climb to God. 

Yet, searching vainly for the things that bless, 
Some little drops of gratitude and prayer 

Just keep my o'erturned cup from emptiness ; 
Some memories of blessings strange and rare, 
Too sacred to be lost, too sad to share, 
Yet hold my heart back from a dull despair ; 

And I can always find, for Christ's dear shrine, 

Fragments from other lives dropped into mine. 

Tis not enough, O Lord ! I still would seek 
The remnants of the strength in struggle lost, 

The ruined fragments of the purpose weak, 

The wrecks of hope and love by shadows crossed, 
The shattered faith upon life's billows tossed ; 



GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS. 21 

And these, though emblems of my life's defeat, 
I fain would bring, Shepherd, to thy feet ! 

Hand, that never breaks the bruised reed ! 
O Voice, that held the waves in its control ! 

Speak peace, and let the fettered life be freed ; 

Pass grandly o'er the tossings of my soul ; 

Bind up my fragments to a perfect whole. 
So, going forth, great in thy tenderness, 

1 may grow strong to cheer, and help, and bless. 



22 TO A FRIEND ON THE NILE. 



TO A FRIEND "ON THE NILE." 

HOW, in the silence strange and sweet 
That falls on the Egyptian night, 
The voices of the years repeat 

Tales of this monarch river's might, 
Whose great heart, throbbing at our feet, 
Goes on with ceaseless swell and beat ; 



Goes on and on, while countless hearts 
Of countless nations all are stilled ; 

W T hiie countless years, that bore their part 
In ages that were glory-filled, 

Grew and declined beneath its smile, 

And sleep in dust along the Nile. 



TO A FRIEND ON THE NILE. 2 $ 

O friend upon the Nile with me, 
Watching the tossings of the palms, 

Tell me if e'er our days can be 
Fuller of blessings and of calms, 
Our music nearer like the psalms ? 

Tell me if 'neath the heavenly palms, 

Beside a river " crystal clear," 
We shall not know e'en deeper calms 

And softer psalms than we do here, 
And, drifting 'neath God's smile the while. 
Be happier there than on the Nile ? 



24 



F ORG I YEN. 



VI. 

FORGIVEN. 

ISAIAH XLIII. 25. 

NOT on my forehead to lighten 
The fiery finger of pain ; 
Not for a moment to slighten 

The bonds of my many-linked chain ; 
Not to be freed from the scourging, 

Though faint when the smitings begin ; 
But save me, dear Lord, from the surging 
Of the terrible sea of my sin. 

Its mad waters drown my lamenting, 
Its black billows mockingly roll 

In scorn of my fruitless repenting, 
In scorn at the fear of my soul. 



FORGIVEN. 25 

It seemed such a calm sea of pleasure ; 

Its voice was as soft as a song, 
Till I trusted my life and my treasure, 

And found it remorseless and strong. 

I sink in a grief unavailing, 

I reach through the dark for thy hand, 
It guides — while my last strength is failing — 

To a Rock in the treacherous sand ; 
All the waters go over me, leaving 

Me ruined and wrecked at thy feet : 
Let me lie there and die there, believing 

Forgiveness divine and complete. 

Ah, me ! am I drowning and dreaming, 

Like the stricken who die while they dream 
Of a past and a future, both beaming 

With fever's delirious gleam ? 
Nay, nay ; it is real, I am going, 

Unharmed by my pitiful loss, 
Where the past and the future are glowing 

Alike in the light of the cross. 



26 FORGIVEX. 

And my soul is singing a paean 

Louder than chant of the sea, 
For the King of the waves Galilean 

Has stilled wilder waters for me ; 
And the blackness is changing to brightness, 

While red waves of pardon o'erflow ; 
My crimson is wool in its whiteness, 

My scarlet is purer than snow. 



PRAISE. 27 

VII. 
PRAISE. 

HOW can I praise thee rightly, who have been 
So slow of heart, so dull to learn thy ways? 
My soul is ready with its glad Amen 
When others sing, and tries their songs again ; 
But all my singing does not sound like praise. 

I thought, dear Lord, that e'en my muffled heart 
Might from its stifling silence break forth free, 

And 'mong thy cheerful singers find a part, 
And add its might to all earth's minstrelsy ; 
But 'tis not thus I find it serveth thee. 

Nay, I must e'en be still, my life at flood 
May overflow, but not in speech or song. 

One may give love — as Jesus gave his blood, 

Each drop a power to lift the world from wrong ; 
And praise is sweet, but love and work are strong. 



I WHY? 

VIII. 
WHY ? 

NOT because my palsied hand has gathered 
Strength to take the idle weapons up ; 
Not because my lips have found the sweetness 
Mingled with the bitter of my cup ; 

Not because the way in which I faltered 
Has grown smoother, or my burden less ; 

Or because I see, thro' Fate's dark masking, 
Where my smiters have been meant to bless ; 

Not because I see, in smoldering ashes, 
Fires of hope and faith once more alight ; 

Or because my waiting has been resting, 
Do I rise and gird me for the fight. 

Gird me, though from wounds still faint and bleeding; 

Walk erect, though weak, athirst, and faint ; 
And press onward to the end, unheeding 

If my road be cheered by wayside saint. 



WHY? 29 

'lis enough that, lying in the shadows, 
Far away from saintly shrine or cross, 

I have heard a voice of human music, 
Seen a smile that shamed defeat and loss ; 

Caught a glance from an illumined spirit, 
Throwing out, where life's high billows roll, 

Light-house gleams of peace, which they inherit 
Who are strong in an unvanquished soul. 

And because I see that sweet light falling 

Over wilder seas than I have tried, 
Warning other barks in deeps appalling, 

Shining on to cheer, to help, to guide ; 

And because /saw it when /drifted, 

Wrecked and broken, on the shifting sand, 

Have I lighted my small lamp, and lifted 
Up my life once more in trembling hand. 

It may be the gleam of my small taper 

Shall o'ershine some rough or shadowed way ; 

So I clasp my weapons, take my burdens, 
And press forward to the eternal day. 



A PICTURE. 



IX. 

A PICTURE. 

ENTERED INTO REST, SEPT. 18, 1876, REV. BISHOP E. S. JANES. 

ONLY a picture of an aged face, 
Wrinkled and seamed by years of thought and 
care ; 
Wearing serene its crown of silver hair, 
Above a rugged brow that bears the trace 

Of earnest thoughts and softening touch of prayer. 

As falls the mist upon the mountain side, 
Hiding the harsher tints of light and shade, 
Which showed where storm and wintry tempest 
played, 

So falls the vail of chastened thought, to hide 
The rougher lines by life's stern conflicts made. 



A PICTURE. 31 

And have we only this ? the pictured smile, 
The calm eyes that have wept their latest tears, 
And lost the earnest fire of early years, 

Gaining this patient look of peace the while ? 
A look that silences our murmuring fears. 

Oh, no ; these are not all ! there was too much 
Of loving kindness toward his fellow-men, 
Of thoughtful care for every brother's pain, 

Of noble things the Spoiler cannot touch, 
Or hearts forget, or even the grave retain . 

And deathless are each kindly word or deed, 
The earnest purpose and the upright life, 
The prayerful sowing of the precious seed, 
The faithful word that bade the right God-speed, 
The helping hand held out in Freedom's strife. 

So, though the kindly voice and step are still, 
And though we miss the smile his calm face wore, 
And grieve because we see him here no more, 

We know life is not over, that he will 
Work for the Master — even as before. 



3? 



A PICTURE. 

That he will work — and wait — till those who grieve, 
Though their steps falter, and their eyes grow 
dim, 
Shall, soon or late, his own deep peace receive, 
And, one by one, their heavy burdens leave, • 
And climb the shining way that leads to him. 



A PICTURE. 35 



X 

A PICTURE. 

ENTERED INTO REST, AUGUST I 3 , 1876, CHARLOTTE, WIFE OF BISHOP 
JANES. 

JUST as sweetly as fades the light 
After the sun is gone, 
Just as gently as through the night 

The steady stars shine on, 
Just as softly as Spring leaves come, 
Or snow-flakes whiten the sod, 
Passed she out from an earthly home 
Into the home of God. 

Never the rays of moon or sun 

Fell on her face that day, 
And only a heavenly artist's hand, 

Could have left such light on clay. 



34 



A PICTURE. 

We knew that angel hands had wrought, 
Each day, at the soul within, 

With loving touches of prayer and thought 
Hiding each trace of sin; 

Sweeping the heavy shade of pain 

Over the smile of her face ; 
And leaving the gleam of a Father's love, 

And the light of the cross in its place. 
And so it was — their sweet work done, 

When the Master bade them cease, 
There was left for our eyes to gaze upon, 

This beautiful picture of peace. 



DEAD. 35 



XI. 

DEAD. 

I BURIED a sorrow out of sight ; 
It is dead ! I said ; it is dead ! 
I shrouded it well in mantle of white ; 
I made it a grave when the stars shone bright ; 
I pressed the sod till it covered it quite, 
And said, It is verily dead ! 
It is dead ! I said ; it is dead ! 

I answered the asking of friendly eyes ; 

It is dead ! I said ; it is dead ! 
I calmed my weeping ; I chained my sighs ; 
My days ran laughter and low replies ; 
I gave back smiling for dumb surprise, 

And said, It is verily dead ! 

It is dead ! I said : it is dead ! 



3* 



DEAD. 

I said it so often the wild waves heard ; 

It is dead ! they said ; it is dead ! 
The murmuring pines in the south wind stirred ; 
The rush of waters, the song of bird, 
All echoed together the same low word, 

It is dead ! they said ; it is dead ! 

It is dead ! it is verily dead ! 

No growing grasses the grave revealed ; 

The sorrow is dead ! I said. 
No deep scar showed where a hurt had healed ; 
But a record was written, a book was sealed, 
And a work was wrought in the world's wide field, 

While ever and ever I said, 

It is dead ! it is verily dead ! 

Ah, well for the world and the world's works' sake ! 

It is dead ! I said ; it is dead ! 
But oh, for my heart ! if it once could wake, 
Its pitiful bondage of silence break, 
And find a voice for its dull, dumb ache ! 

Nay, nay ; it is dead ! I said ; 

It is dead ! it is verily dead ! 



IF THY RIGHT HAND OFFEND THEE. 37 



XII. 
IF THY RIGHT HAND OFFEND THEE." 



N 



AY, not my right hand ? 
It is scarred with its toil ; it hath never known 



rest ; 
In the struggle of life it hath wrought with the best ; 
It hath smitten the foes that assaulted my breast ; 
It hath fought in my battles, fulfilled my command — 

Thou wilt spare my right hand ? " 

' ' Nay, nay ; not so fast ! 
It is strong — it hath striven ; but aye for the right ? 
Can it hold its scars proudly to-day in my sight ? 
Hath it guarded thy bosom from darkness or light? 
At my feet even now have its weapons been cast ? 

Can I trust it at last ? " 



3 8 IF THY RIGHT HAND OFFEND THEE. 

" Ah ! it quails at thy word ; 
It hath scattered such seed as were better unsown ; 
It hath garnered in fields that were never its own ; 
It hath left its own garden with weeds overgrown ; 
Yet it trembles and fears at the gleam of the sword. 

Thou wilt pity it, Lord ? " 

" And did I not heed 
Thy pleading, and strengthen and cleanse and prepare 
For work in my vineyard, my harvests to share? 
Behold what rebellion hath answered my care ! 
Thy garners are empty, thou'rt crippled indeed ; 

And yet dost thou plead ? " 

" Nay, Lord, I am still ! 
See ! the hand is in thine ! If thou lovest me so, 
There is mercy in smiting that lays me so low, 
There are pardon and healing to follow the blow ; 
Whole or maimed, weak or strong, if only thy will 

Be wrought, I am still ! " 



TOIL AND REST 39 



XIII. 
TOIL AND REST. 

FROM my window I can see the reapers 
Bringing home their sheaves at set of sun ; 
Drowsy bees are humming 'mid the creepers, 
Over sweetness gained and labor done. 

Peasant women from the field are bringing 

Little rosy children, tired of play, 
Who, within the sound of mother's singing, 

Slept or sported in the grass all day. 

''Blest the toil that sweetens rest and pleasure/'' 
Sighs the evening wind through closing flowers 

" Blest each humble hand that wrested treasure 
From the golden storehouse of the hours." 

Throbs the earth with pulse of strong endeavor ; 

I alone, behind my prison bars, 
Hold my hands up empty, and can never 

Welcome the calm coming of the stars. 



40 TOIL AND REST. 

I am weary, too ; yet restful even 

On no harvest-work of mine has smiled 

And no song of mine has sweetness given 
Even to the slumbers of a child. 



I have lost the Hand the whole world guiding 
To the fields where humble souls rejoice, 

And earth's harmonies are changed to chiding. 
Wind and leaf and wave, with one low voice, 

Sadly talk of life that, yields no sweetness, 
Waking mournful echo in my breast, 

Till I, quickened, yearn for the completeness 
Of a toil that earns the evening's rest; 

Till I hasten to my own late sowing, 
In the fields forever stretching wide, 

Where, of old, one at the last hour going, 
Found his penny at the eventide. 

Homburg, Germany, July 18th. 



TWO AND ONE. 



XIV. 
TWO AND ONE. 

TWO mountain streamlets seeking 
Lone ways to the same sea ; 
Two tones that need but echoes 

To make them harmony ; 
Two clouds at sunset ranging 

The western fields of light, 
One glowing gold, one changing 

Its purple into white ; 
Two pilgrims walking lonely, 

Rough ways to the same shrine ; 
Two right hands lifted upward 

For cups of life's red wine. 

Two small streams make together 

A river swift and strong ; 
Two voices make new music, 

If blended in one song ; 



42 TWO AND ONE. 

And in the western heaven 

Strange, wondrous tints unfold, 
When cloud in white and purple 

Meets cloud in crimson and gold ; 
And a smoother road leads upward 

Than lonely saint e'er knew, 
Through fragrant lands, where one strong hand 

Must gather the grapes for two. 

So music is wedded to music, 

And stream and stream are one, 
And cloud is the bride of cloudlet 

In the palace of the sun ; 
And a life that is weak and wanting 

Rounds to a perfect whole, 
When spirit is one with spirit, 

And soul is wedded to soul. 



AMONG THE SAINTS. 43 



XV. 
AMONG THE SAINTS. 

ON THE CATHEDRAL AT MILAN. 

THERE'S a winding stairway in the tower, 
Leading upward ever high and higher, 
From the silence of the old cathedral ; 
From the shadow of the ancient columns, 
Standing strong in still and solemn grayness, 
'Neath the fretted roofs uplifted arches ; 
From the windows, where the common sunlight, 
Through the glowing robes of saints transmitted, 
Grows a golden glory, flecked with rubies ; 
From the crypt, where silver lamps' faint flicker 
On the crystal coffins and the jewels 
Makes them smile with cold, unmeaning glitter, 
Mocking ghastly dust they cannot cover; 
From the lifted cross and gorgeous altar ; 



44 



AMONG THE SAINTS. 

From the hurried priest's monotonous droning, 

And the echo of the faint responses ; 

From the kneelers, idling at their praying, 

Swiftly slipping beads through careless fingers ; 

From the footfall of the curious strangers, 

And the truer pleading of the beggars — 

Halt and maimed, for whom is no Bethesda ; 

Leprous limbed, for whom there flows no Jordan ; 

Blind, who, waiting ever by the wayside, 

Never hear the step of heavenly Healer ; 

From the organ's grand, majestic hymning, 

And the bell that, in its mighty sweetness, 

Gives the soul of the cathedral utterance, 

Like a great heart's high, tumultuous throbbing, 

Finding echo -in the hidden places. 

— Mounting slow this stairway in the tower, 

All the mingled sounds are lost in silence. 

Lost the dimness, gold and ruby tinted, 

In a canopy of white and turquoise, 

God's o'ershadowing clouds and arch of azure. 

Now the giant temple is below us ; 

Far below us the majestic city, 



AMONG THE SAINTS. 45 

Quivering like a restless human creature, 
Pulsing with the pain of human heart-aches; 
So alive with hopes of myriad mortals, 
With the floods of love, of death, of passion " 
Finding veins in every street and by-way — 
Veins that leave their dead at this wide portal 
When the floods are gone and tides are ebbing. 

This great temple seems almost immortal, 
Even as if the dead hands that upreared it, 
With unseen and ever silent touches, 
Swept away the dust of its decaying ; 
Till it stands so sacred in its whiteness, 
So unsullied in its marble vesture, 
That, methinks, Jerusalem the Golden, 
Coming down from God with fair adorning, 
If it had but need of one fair temple 
For the kings to bring their glory into, 
Then, methinks, the Bride let down fiom 

heaven, 
With the glory of the Lord upon her, 
Of her golden streets and walls of jasper, 



46 AMONG THE SAINTS. 

Of her pearly gates swung wide forever, 
Of her light, beyond the sun's clear shining, 
Would not find this house of God unworthy. 

Here have human faith, and love, and longing 
Crystallized in forms of grace and beauty, 
Till each slender shaft, and shrine, and column 
Is a tear, or prayer, or hope, embodied ; 
Voices something that were else unspoken. 
Every statue of the white three thousand, 
Waiting, silent, through the drifting ages, 
While the Italian sod takes to her bosom, 
One by one, the countless generations 
Who have lifted up their eyes in dying 
To the marble faces shining on them, 
Has its voice of blessing or of comfort. 
Glorious company of saints and martyrs, 
In their hands the palms of triumph bearing, 
On their brows the peace of those who conquered. 
Calm, sweet souls, who are to-day's possession, 
Whose good deeds, to every clime belonging, 
Bridge, with blessing and with inspiration, 



AMONG THE SAINTS. 



47 



All the seas of years that swell between us. 

No more seem they marble statues only, 

Keeping guard above the old cathedral ; 

But each niche reveals a face transfigured 

With the peace of Him " who overcometh." 

All the patient look of calm endurance, 

All the upraised, tearful glance of longing, 

Over-swept by some high hope of service 

To be wrought for those who still must struggle. 

These are dwellers in the higher temple ; 

Human hearts have shrined their life and story, 

Human lives have seen their hidden glory, 

By their helping grown to greater meetness 

For that chiefest joy, the sure indwelling 

Of the love that makes our life's completeness. 

Far below us lies the living city ; 
Calm before us spreads the wide Campagna ; 
All the hillsides smile with countless vineyards ; 
All the slopes show silvery shine of olives ; 
And, beyond, rise up the glorious mountains, 
The eternal mountains of the Alpland. 



48 AMONG THE SAINTS. 

Far to southward sleeps the land of blossoms, 
Dreams the Italy, that more than ever 
Should arise and don her beauteous garments ; 
Should lift up her voice in purer praising, 
That no longer down her mountain passes 
Or 'cross seas, her foes shall come upon her ; 
That the dust is swept from off her altars ; 
That the iron chains of superstition 
Bind no more the spirits of her people ; 
That her worshiping may yet be worthy 
Of her temples and the God above them. 



ENDURANCE. 49 



XVI. 
ENDURANCE. 

FOR deeps of human suffering or joy no measure 
Into our hands is given ; 
We cannot know our brother's loss or treasure, 
His anguish or his heaven. 

Ofttimes the arrowy sharpness of a sorrow. 
Piercing life's common calm, 

Smites hidden rocks of comfort, which to-morrow 
O'erfiow with healing balm. 

Ofttimes we calmest find grief's turbid river 

Who trembled on its brink ; 
And oft the cup at which our blanched lips quiver 
Holds wine of hope to drink. 
3 



5° 



ENDURANCE. 

'Neath burdens that we staggered in the taking 
We walk erect at length ; 

And bitter blows that bow us e'en to breaking 
Reveal our secret strength. 



THE PRODIGALS RETURN. 51 

XVII. 
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 

1. 

BACK to thy feet, my Father ! 
Wearied and stricken and sore, 
Dragging a heavier burden 

Than ever a prodigal bore ; 
Coming with worn feet that falter, 

Hands that are crimsoned with stain, 
And a heart that can lay on thine altar 
Only its sin and its pain. 



I changed the white robes of thy favor 
For garments tattered and soiled ; 

The fields where thou badest me labor 
The weeds and the foxes have spoiled. 



52 



THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 

I turned from the fruits of thy vineyard, 
To feed on the husks with the swine, 

And left the pure springs of thy mercy 
For cups of the rioter's wine. 

in. 

And now to thy feet I am coming. 

Saddened, ashamed, and defiled, 
And I ask for the bread of a servant — 

Not worthy the name of a child. 
I wait, in the dust, for thy greeting ; 

If it come with the stroke of thy rod, 
Spare it not, if it hasten the meeting 

Of a penitent heart and its God. 

IV. 

O stained hands ! cleansed by thy grasping ! 

O bleeding feet ! healed in thy ways ! 
Leave thy sins, and press onward, close-clasp- 
ing 

The cross of my shame and thy praise. 



THE PRODIGALS RETURA r . 



53 



Till the tearful eyes, healed of their blindness, 
Shall see, from the lowliest place, 

The wonderful mercy and kindness 
That shines in thy pardoning face. 



54 MARY BEARING THE DOVES TO SACRIFICE. 



XVIII. 
MARY BEARING THE DOVES TO SACRIFICE. 

A PICTURE ON THE WALL. 

MY lifted eyes behold a fair child's face, 
Under a vail of woman's holiest thought, 
O'ershadowed by the mystery of grace 

And mystery of mercy God hath wrought. 

Down through the dim old Temple moving slow, 
Her drooping lids scarce lifted from the ground, 

As if she dimly heard the distant flow 

Of far-off seas of grief she could not sound. 

I think the angels scarce could count it sin, 
If, underneath the vail that hid her eyes, 

They, seeing all things, saw the soul within 
Knew more of mother-love than sacrifice. 



MAR Y BEARING THE DO VES TO SACRIFICE. 55 

She walks erect, like one all undented ; 

Back from her throat the loose robe falls apart, 
And, e'en as she would clasp her royal child, 

She holds the dovelets to her mother-heart. 



No white wing trembles 'neath her pitying palm ; 

No feather flutters in this last warm nest ; 
And so she bears them on, while solemn psalm 

Drowns the prophetic whisper in her breast. 



Sweet Hebrew Mother ! many a woman shares 
Thy crucifixion of her hopes and loves ; 

And in her arms to death unshrinking bears 
Her precious things, as thou thy turtle-doves. 



But often, ere upon the marble floor 
Has died the echo of the parting feet, 

Our gifts prove worthless ; thine is evermore, 
The gift of gifts, transcendent and complete. 



5 6 MARY BEARING THE DOVES TO SACRIFICE. 



We have our little treasures, each our own, 
And, one by one, we see them sacrificed. 

Thou, "blessed among women!" thou, alone, 
Couldst give to God — from thine own arms — 
the Christ. 



ALONE. 57 



XIX. 
ALONE. 

AFRAID to dwell alone, coward heart ! 
When he, whose hand hath set thee thus apart, 
Built up thy hedges, closed thine open gate, 
Knows what it is to stand outside, and wait ? 

Oh ! think how oft — his locks with night dews wet- 
He trod the shadowy gloom of Olivet ; 
How vainly sought one loving soul, to share 
Gethsemane's sad hour of midnight prayer. 

How human hearts gave back, for love, their hate ; 
Till, smitten, scorned, and mocked, and desolate, 
His aching heart broke with this dying moan : 
" My God ! my God ! why am I left alone ? " 

Before his cross, O tired soul ! be still ; 
Accept the path he shows thee ; let his will 
3* 



58 



ALONE. 



Be guide and comfort ; so, however drear 
The way may seem to thee, he will be near ! 

Hearing his voice, what other canst thou need ? 
Seeing his smile, thy days are fair indeed. 
Divinest fellowship may be thine own — 
Say, soul, art still afraid to be alone ? 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 59 

XX. 

LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

THE fire burns low, the shadows gleam and fade, 
And darkness lingers where the sunset played ; 
A hand of silence on my lips is laid — 
I cannot find the light ! 

One eager longing fills my clouded breast ; 
I wait the coming of a heavenly guest : 
Thou, who of old in Bethany didst rest, 
Tarry with me to-night ! 

With goodly fare my table is not spread ; 
Hot tears have mingled with my wine and bread ; 
I cannot pour upon thy blessed head 
The spikenard rare and sweet. 

But if my few poor gifts thou condescend 
To take, thy taking worthiness will lend, 
And I will pour my soul out, O my Friend ! 
Like Mary, at thy feet ! 



60 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

My soul, consumed by sin's corroding rust ; 
My soul, that spurned the stars and loved the dust 
My soul, that longs at last for love and trust, 
Is all I have to bring. 

I strain my gaze now for one gleaming star, 
I sit in darkness with my door ajar, 
That I may hear thy footsteps from afar, 
The footsteps of my King ! 

And I do hear, though clouds thy visage hide ; 
I reach my hand out thro' the shadowy tide 
Of doubts and fears, and on the other side 
Lo, it is clasped in thine ! 

I shuddering feel the nail-prints in the palm ; 
But oh ! the wound drops healing, and a balm 
Of tenderness, that blesses with a calm 
Of peace and love divine. 



A PRAYER. 6 1 



XXI. 
A PRAYER. 

WEARIED and tired and worn, 
Loathing what is, dreading what is to be, 
Shrinking from burdens that must still be borne, 
Father, I come to thee ! 

I lay my burdens down 

One moment, that my hands thy cross may take. 
When shall I lift them up to take the crown 
Given for Christ's dear sake ? 

I'm wearied with the heat, 

And still the sands grow hotter 'neath my tread ; 
Beside no cool streams walk my aching feet, 
No shade is o'er my head. 



(J2 . A PRAYER. 

I come to thee for rest, 

Bringing thee love and trust — both weak thro' 
pain ; 
Oh ! lift me till I lie upon thy breast, 
Love me to peace again. 

And lay thy precious hand, 

In softest touches, on my head to-day, 
And let me by thine own strong breath be fanned 
Through all the desert way. 

Then, though my heart be sad, 

Though I am weary, and the way seem long, 
Thy blessed presence here shall make me glad, 
In thee I shall be strong. 



VENETIA LIETH DEAD. 63 



XXII. 
VENETIA LIETH DEAD. 

O PURPLE Adriatic ! that wore upon thy breast 
The splendor of the Orient, the glory of the 
West ! 
O rare and royal wooer ! O sea ! whose throbbing 

tide 
Enfolded fair Venetia, and won her for thy bride ; 
Till, robed in beauteous garments, with white, un- 

sandaled feet, 
She walked upon the waters, her lord, her king to 

meet. 
Soft, soft the vow and sweet the kiss with which 

the maiden wed, 
But softer let the farewell be. Venetia lieth dead ! 

Thy waters, Adriatic, still kiss her icy feet ; 
The winds still bear thy love-song in music low and 
sweet ; 



64 VENETIA L1ETH DEAD. 

Still kindly bend above her the glowing eastern skies ; 
But the tender golden glory reflected in her eyes, 
The rainbow hues of promise, the purple of her 

pride, 
Have faded to the dimness that marked the eventide. 
The rose tint of her gladness, through all the warm 

air shed, 
Has paled to moonlight whiteness. Venetia lieth dead! 

Where sped the bright-winged gondola along the 

tideless street, 
Whose paths could never echo the tread of human feet, 
Still all day long the boatmen ply upon their silent 

track ; 
But the gorgeous bird of paradise is changed to 

raven black ; 
And where the songs of merriment fell on the air 

of yore, 
The boatman's muttered curse beats time to music 

of the oar ; 
The fluttering silken canopy above the dreamer's head 
Is changed to pall-like drapery. Venetia lieth dead ! 



VENETIA LIETH DEAD. 65 

Her shining marble palaces show dim, time-black- 
ened walls ; 

The shadowy ghosts of grander days haunt her de- 
serted halls ; 

The doves that came from eastern lands to nestle 
in her breast 

Have felt a chill beneath their wings, and sought a 
warmer nest ; 

Her Winged Lion croucheth low beneath the Aus- 
trian's hand ; 

Her banner traileth in the dust, that brightened sea 
and land ; 

Her faith and hope in sackcloth, with ashes on her 
head, 

And dust upon her altars. Venetia lieth dead ! 

So, shorn of all her beauty, and robbed of all her 

might, 
Fold thy soft waves about her and shroud her out 

of sight. 
Too long she walked in freedom to bear the captive's 

pain, [chain. 

Her white hands held a scepter too long to wear a 



66 VENETIA LIETH DEAD. 

So, when from out her heaven dropped the star of 
Liberty, 

Queen of the Adriatic, Bride of the Southern Sea, 

What marvel that she languished, that, on her bil- 
lowy bed, 

Unheeding all thy moaning, Venetia lieth dead ? 

O silent city ! sleeping beneath Italia's sun, 

With thy last thoughts of freedom departing one by 

one, 
Like specters that, unrecognized, from out the past 

arise, 
And glide in swift procession over thy Bridge of 

Sighs ; 
Over the weary Bridge of Sighs, that erst its burden 

bore 
From the stately palace portal e'en to the prison 

door ; 
The prison door, behind whose bars, with the waters 

for her bed, 
And Italia's sky above her, Venetia lieth dead ! 

Venice, 1865. 



VENETIA WAKES AGAIN. 67 



XXIII. 
VENETIA WAKES AGAIN. 

NOT in her early beauty, not in her robes of 
pride, 

As when the orange blossoms crowned the sea's tran- 
scendent bride ; 

But clad in every color Italia's flag unfurls, 

She puts aside her sackcloth, and gathers up her 
pearls, 

And binds them on her brow once more, and counts 
them as the tears 

From eyes that watched for freedom through all the 
weary years ; 

And casting from her fettered limbs the Austrian's 
galling chain, 

She lifts her face up to the sun. " Venetia wakes 
again ! " 



68 VENETIA WAKES AGAIN. 

Again upon each crowded bridge waits an exultant 

throng, 
Again on every silent street rings out the boatman's 

song, 
And pennons float from mast and tower and marble 

balcony, 
And cheers and waving banners greet the army of 

the free. 
Not with the tramp of hurrying feet or mail-clad 

warriors' tread. 
Not with the captives at their heels or conquerors at 

their head, 
Not with the canopy of gold above the glittering train, 
Or gorgeous pageantry of old "Venetia wakes again ! '" 

But radiant with the dawning of future life and 

strength, 
The dawning of the perfect day she shall behold at 

length ; 
And happy hands shower flowers down, laden with 

tears and prayers, 
On every gondola that slow the proud procession bears. 



VENETIA WAKES AGAIN. 



69 



The angels of deliverance are welcomed none the less 
That 'stead of royal robes they wear the Gari- 

baldian dress, 
And bear within their strong right hands a sword 

that knows no stain, 
A scepter, at whose lightest touch "Venetia wakes 

again.'' 

O woe to thee, Italia ! if, sheltered in thy breast, 

She finds not there her truest life, as well as truest rest. 

And woe to thee ! if bearing now thy flag, thy shield, 
thy name, 

Thou lift her not from darkness, and redeem her not 
from shame. 

Free from the mountains to the sea, thy children 
gathered home, 

One prouder day yet waits for thee, when thy banner 
floats o'er Rome. 

But when thy song of triumph gains that last ex- 
ultant strain, 

Still let it keep this glad refrain, "Venetia wakes 
again ! " 

Venice, 1866. 



yo TRUE FREEDOM. 



XXIV. 
TRUE FREEDOM. 

" For Freedom is not secured by full enjoyment of what is desired, but by 
controlling the desire." — Epictetus. 

STRANGELY on our hurried human living, 
On our restless strife and eager scheming, 
On our stubborn habit of resistance 
To whatever mocks or thwarts our wishes, 
Falls the wisdom of the old-time teacher. 

Strange — yet, when our deepest souls make answer, 
They but give an echo to the lessons ; 
And we know, by subtle inward teaching, 
Truths the outward sense denies or questions. 
Thus we know that he alone hath riches 
Who hath proved the greatness of a little ; 
He alone hath store of heavenly treasure 
Whom God loveth as a cheerful giver ; 



TRUE FREEDOM. 71 

That he only walks in truest freedom 

Who can bear his chains without a murmur ; 

And that he is victor over trouble 

Who hath learned the blessedness of yielding, 

And possesseth his own soul in patience. 

So it is ; we may be "more than conquerors ; " 
"More than conquerors" through One who 

loved us ; 
One whose strength is in our weakness perfect ; 
One who meets our emptiness with fullness ; 
One who said, "Who saveth life shall lose it ; 
He who giveth findeth life eternal." 



7 2 



THE LAST OF THE SUMMER. 

XXV. 
THE LAST OF THE SUMMER. 

I SEE them again, my own hill-lands, 
The mountains I used to know 
When my shadows were falling westward, 
And my days were all aglow 
With the sun of long ago. 

I have no need to remember 
The picture of each old place, 

For the touch of the young September 
On Nature's familiar face 
Has given the old-time grace ; 

The grace of the day when the sunshine 
Creeps softly and slow toward the west ; 

The faint, nameless shade, scarce a shadow, 
That holds a dim promise of rest, 
Which marks its own hour as the best. 



THE LAST OF THE SUMMER. 73 

A grace which the dying summer 
Threw, like a mantle, down 

On mountain, and field, and woodland, 
Where, living, she wore her crown — 
The crown in the dust laid down. 

It hangs o'er the hillside forests 

In many a misty fold, 
And the life is gone from their greenness, 

And the mountains look blighted and cold, 

Like strong men suddenly old. 

The tender green of the grasses 
Is changed to a lifeless gray ; 

I have seen the velvet cushions 
In places where penitents pray, 
That looked like the fields to-day. 

And the whole earth seems a temple, 
Where, notes of praise between, 

An undertone of sorrow 
Echoes in aisles of green, 
For a dead and discrowned queen. 
4 



74 



THE LAST OF THE SUMMER. 

And the gay and glorious autumn 
Reluctant comes to reign, 

As if she shrank from startling 
With light and joy again 
This vague, unspoken pain. 

But a crimson banner, flying 
From one lone maple tree, 

Gives to the wind a promise 
Of glory that will be, 
When the summer shade shall flee. 

The woods may burn with color, 
And the sun the hill-tops kiss ; 

From all their royal robing 
My heart a charm shall miss, 
And no day be like this. 

I shall open mine eyes to the glory, 
I shall join the harvest praise; 

But I cannot carry over 
Into the gayer ways 
What died in the summer days. 



THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD. 75 

XXVI. 
THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD. 

23D PSALM, FOR A CHILD. 

THE Lord is my Shepherd," and I am his 
lamb, 
One of the smallest and weakest I am ; 
Yet by his bounty daily I'm fed, 
In his green pastures tenderly led. 

Kind is my Shepherd, and large is his fold, 
Daily he welcomes the young as the old ; 
Tenderly watching, in waking and sleep, 
Over us evermore guard doth he keep. 

Sometimes the way where he leadeth his sheep 
Groweth for child-feet dark and too steep ; 
Then doth he lift me close to his breast, 
Bearing me upward to places of rest. 



76 THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD. 

He hath green pastures lying afar, 
Needing no sunlight, needing no star ; 
There from his presence the lambs never stray, 
Thither he leadeth me nearer each day. 



I hear of a valley and shadow of death ; 

I see but green meadows illumined by faith ; 

Whatever the journey still trustful I am, 

For the Lord is my Shepherd, and I am his lamb. 



THE E VER Y-DA Y SORRO W. 



77 



XXVII. 
THE EVERY-DAY SORROW. 

THE troubled tide of tangible despairing 
Beats never unconsoled ; 
Not so the long, low swell of anguish, bearing 
Dumb sorrows manifold. 

The common griefs of common souls, whose level 

Is mortals' low estate ; 
Whose voices, deadened by some loud woe's revel, 

In sobbing silence wait ; 

Wait for one answering cry of recognition, 

One star athwart their sky, 
One promise of a far-off, fair fruition 

For hopes that waiting die ; 



78 THE E VERY-DAY SORROW. 

And, dying, walk again in ghostly starkness, 

Peopling the gloomy gray 
That makes their heaven murkier than darkness, 

And farther from the day. 

For these where is the light ? Shall that bright portal 
Which, soon or late, swings wide 

For every soul, reveal a joy immortal 
Secure the other side ? 

Shall some their crosses lift, till night upon them 

Transfigures all below, 
And wear our crowns so long ere they have won them 

That all their glory know — 

And these, who, bending, drag a cross in sadness, 

Their faces to the dust, 
Not carry palms at last ? or know the gladness 

Of souls that rest and trust ? 

Is it slow-slipping beads, or patient folding 
Of stained hands in prayer, 



THE E VERY-DAY SORROW. 79 

That makes them purer ? or the faithful holding 
Of what God gives to bear ? 

Not all the gathered wisdom of the sages 
Can guess God's hidden ways, 

And yet the slow unfolding of the ages 
Must still show forth his praise. 

And all this mystery of pain, our spirits 

Can neither bear nor break, 
May not be mystery to souls who bear it 

In love and for love's sake. 



8o A LAMP TO THE FEET. 



XXVIII. 

A LAMP TO THY FEET, AND A LIGHT 
TO THY PATH." 

A LAMP to thy feet — not a splendor 
Lighting the hills afar ; 
' Not a radiance, solemn and tender, 
Of moonlight or glimmering star. 
All around may be shrouded in shadow 
And dimness and mist of the night ; 
But be it o'er mountain or meadow, 
Before us the path shall be light ! 

Not light with the glow of the morning, 
Flooded with sunshine sweet ; 

Not e'en the faint gleam of the dawning, 
But only a " lamp to the feet.'' 



A LAMP TO THE FEET. 8 1 

If all the long road stretched in whiteness, 
And wide fields smiled in the day, 

Should we move swiftly on in the brightness, 
Or linger and dream by the way ? 

He knoweth, who, guiding the stranger 

Safely in darkness and light, 
Hath hidden the glory and danger 

Alike from our wandering sight. 
He knoweth, who, walking before us 

Bearing the glimmering lamp, 
How somber the shade that hangs o'er us, 

How we shiver and shrink in the damp. 

For His locks are wet with the night-dews, 

His feet are bleeding and torn, 
As, wearying under our burden, 

He treads in our pathway the thorn. 
Though His lamp lights one step and one only, 

There's the mark of His foot in the sod ; 
And the way may be stormy or lonely, 

It ends in the smile of our God ! 
4* 



82 NOTHING LOST. 



XXIX. 



NOTHING LOST. 



THERE is no heart, however lost and straying 
From the green pastures and the narrow road, 
But sees afar, sometimes, the soft light playing 
Around the summit of the mount of God ; 



And seeing, longs to try the upward climbing 
Of that hard path that leads away from night, 

To where the sin-dulled ear can catch the chiming 
Of souls triumphant who have reached the height. 

And sometimes hands well trained to evil uses 
Will drop the weapons of their sin and strife, 

And take instead the cross of one who chooses 
To lose all things and gain eternal life. 



NOTHING LOST. 83 

Tis true, the eye that sees the mountain glowing 
May turn to shadows ere the day is done ; 

The feet most eager in their upward going 
May falter ere the race is well begun ; 

The hands may drop the burdens and the crosses ; 

The quickened ear forget the heavenly song ; 
The wrecked soul drift, forgetful of its losses, 

And all the right go back again to wrong. 

And yet while life goes on — a restless fever, 
With good ennobled and with evil curst — ■ 

Each restless longing, and each grand endeavor, 
And each high hope are, to that fever's thirst, 

Like one more drop from a celestial river 
That waters all the region, wide and fair, 

Where wanderers go no more out forever, 

When once have shut the golden gates of prayer. 



84 THE KNEELING PLACE. 



XXX. 



THE KNEELING PLACE. 



T 



HRO' somber temples taper lights are gleaming. 



Often God's light instead 



Thou hast, through window small the white moon 
streaming, 

And stars o'erhead. 
Up thro' the hushed air of these sacred places 

White prayers are drifted. 
Here rise the pleadings low of sad, still faces 

In tears uplifted. 
High thoughts, and words, and music strong and 
sweet 

May be Faith's token ; 
But tears that fall in love at Jesus' feet 

Are prayers unspoken. 



u 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 85 

XXXI. 

"THE BELLS OF LYNN." 

READ ON THE CAMPAGNA AT ROME. 

BELLS OF LYNN," BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. — Atlantic Monthly. 

"NDER the calm sky bending over Rome 

I read a book from home. 
Slowly its treasures open to the sun ; 

I grasp them, one by one, 
And heeding not the wavering sunlight's play 

On tower and town that day, 
Or how it brightens with its crimson glow 

The Alban hills of snow, 
Or that the Tiber wanders at my feet 

With murmur low and sweet, 
I see as in a dream the white sheep pass 

On the Campagna grass, 
And hear the chirp of birds and voices young 

The olive trees among ; 
The squalid beggars haunting each fair spot 

Pray, and I heed them not ; 



86 THE BELLS OF LYNN. 

The dark Priest kneeling by the wayside shrine 

Has thought nor prayer of mine ; 
The distant wastes of ruin only seem 

The fabrics of a dream ; 
For over all the stretch of billowy sea 

A voice has come to me, 
So far, so dim, and yet so real and near, 

I bend my head to hear, 
And thro' the Eternal City's swell of tone 

Breaks that one sound alone : 
Above the noise without, the jar within, 

I hear the Bells of Lynn 
Speak low to me as. in the olden time, 

I heard your dear notes chime ; 
And, as a tired child hears a mother's voice, 

I listen and rejoice. 

I still am gathering pebbles all the day — 

It is no longer play — 

■ 
And not forever by the sounding sea 

Can my poor gleanings be ; 

But 'mong the ruins and by thorny road 

Which nobler steps have trod, 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 87 

Burdened and weary oft, I upward press 

Beyond all weariness ; 
And breaking softly through the ways of pain, 

To hear thy voice again 
Is earnest that the rest shall soon begin. 

Speak on, O Bells of Lynn ! 
Tell me if round the gray rocks of Nahant 

Still, still the wild winds chant ; 
If ever, in your music's wandering low, 

It chanced where violets grow ; 
If 'mong the mosses and upon the hill 

The wild rose climbeth still ; 
If you go out to meet the ships at sea 

With winds for company ; 
Bearing to wanderers the thoughts of home, 

As here to me in Rome. 
Tell me if underneath the willow's shade 

Any new graves are made ; 
If__but I catch the trembling of thy strain, 

And will not ask again. 
It needs not voice of wind or wave or bell 

To tell me — all is well. 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 

I know not how the golden day has sped ; 

The home book is unread ; 
On dome and spire and mount and ruined wall 

Softly the shadows fall, 
And far above the distant city's din 

I hear the Bells of Lynn. 
The shepherd leads his white lambs to the fold, 

While round the ruin old 
There clings the glory of the setting sun ; 

And slowly, one by one, 
The penitents forsake the wayside shrine ; 

While the unchanging sign 
Of Christ's dear love, uplifted in the light, 

Gleams still and white ; 
And vesper music with its healing calm 

Falls on the air like balm. 
Still I am seeing, even thro' my tears, 

The home of early years ; 
And hearing, through the sound of pain or sin, 

Only the Bells of Lynn; 
Thro' all that is, and all that might have been, 

The dear old Bells of Lynn. 



A WISH. 89 



XXXII. 
A WISH. 



MY life has climbed to its topmost steep ; 
I see the slopes on the downward side 
I have seen my sea at its fullest tide, 
And watched the darkling waters creep, 
Out to the deep, where a dreamless sleep 
Waits whatever has lived and died. 



And I backward throw one line of prayer, 
A frail thread over the ways I've trod, 
That the valley glooms, and the thorny sod, 
And the desert's burning paths of care 
Change to the gleam of pastures fair, 
Under your step as you climb to God. 



9° 



A PRAYER. 



XXXIII. 
A PRAYER. 

I LONG to take the wine of love and faith, 
Which, overflowing once in crimson flood, 
Swept over all the wastes of sin and death, 

A great tide welling from the heart of God ; 
Which flowed and ebbed, and to his feet swept 
back 
A world's heart cleansed in blood. 

Was it alone for one of old — beloved — 
Saviour, to lay his head upon thy breast ? 

And wilt thou not to-day take to thy bosom 
A heart that only there can find its rest ? 

And say again, "To whom is much forgiven 
Shall it be given to love and serve Me best " ? 



THANKS FOR FLOWERS. 



9 1 



XXXIV. 
THANKS FOR FLOWERS. 

HOW shall I mold the blossoms of my speech 
To forms as fair as those to-night you brim 
How grasp the garland just beyond my reach, 
Who always stammer when I need to sing? 



If /had thoughts as bright as flowers are, 

And words that made them gleam like drops of dew, 

Words that held fragrance, life, and beauty rare, 
Then I would make a wreath of them for you. 

But, while outside the fields are fair enough, 
And with your gift my room is all aglow, 

In mine own garden, rocky-soiled and rough, 
Things worthy of your taking will not grow. 



9 2 



THANKS FOR FLOWERS. 



The fairest buds with which it once was filled 

Clouds frowned upon oftener than sunshine smiled ; 

Some drooped in spring, and some were winter-killed. 
And some grew old while I was but a child. 

Here is one little sprig of mignonette ; 

It grew close 'neath the shelter of the wall ; 
And here's one pansy by the night-dews wet, 

Too hardy to die early — that is all. 

But, cheered and rested by your kindly thought, 
I'll throw my gardens open to the sun, 

And maybe, some time, when my work is wrought, 
And I need flowers, I shall find more than one. 

If it be true — that saying quaint and old — 

" Kind deeds are golden grain that cannot die, 

But bringeth to the sower many fold," 

Then / shall bring you blossoms by and by. 



LA BO RARE EST OR A RE. 93 



XXXV. 

LABORARE EST ORARE. 

MARY LOWE DICKINSON. 

THE fleecy clouds are climbing from the rivers, 
The distant mountain-tops are all aglow 
With morning's early light, that, glancing, quivers 
Among the firs that crown the crags below. 

Give back again my pilgrim staff, my Father, 
To guard my steps adown the dizzy height ; 

For, long before the evening shadows gather, 
I journey toward a country out of sight. 

O Father ! tempt me not. I well remember 
When, blind and baffled by the blasts of fate, 

And chilled by years that were one long December, 
I staggered fainting to thy convent gate. 

Can I forget thy ministry of healing, 

The cup of wine, the sleep in spotless cell, 

The hand of benediction, the appealing 

Of cross and saint and shrine and vesper-bell 



94 LABORARE EST ORARE. 



The days of calm, the nights of solemn splendor, 
The heights of silence, where e'en murmurs cease, 

The spirit's tender and serene surrender 
To the incoming of abiding peace ? 

Oh ! sweet indeed the rest upon the mountains, 
This strength from out the everlasting hills, 

This draught of life from purest upland fountains, 
This sight of Heaven that all my vision fills. 



But, Father, here I came through desert dangers 
I held my breaking staff with bleeding hand, 

And left behind me weary, stricken strangers 
Athirst and fainting on the shifting sand. 



The desert wells were dry ; my flask was broken ; 

Too frail for mine own weakness was my rod ; 
The hot skies gave their lifted eyes no token ; 

No rain-cloud answered to their cry to God. 

They pilgrims too, alas ! with none to love them ; 

Their spent lives languished, while God quickened 
mine ; 
Rain fell for me — the heavens were brass above them ; 

I only reached the mountains, gained the shrine. 



LABORARE EST OR A RE. 95 

True, they were spared my long and dreary climbing, 
My battling with the tempest and the cold ; 

But oh ! my Father, they have missed the chiming 
Of my sweet bells, my shepherd, and my fold. 

E'en here, on these cool steeps, hot throbs of anguish 
Repeat in mine own veins their pulse of pain ; 

I, too, beneath the desert-fever languish ; 

Their striving drowns my peace, their loss my gain. 

■ 
Their hunger robs my daily bread of sweetness, 

Their moans thread sadly my triumphant psalm. 
Let me go down to share in its completeness 

Their woes, or lift them up to share this calm. 

Oh, idle rest, while dearer souls are straying ! 

Oh, selfish joy, while these are unforgiven ! 
Oh, vanity of vague and voiceless praying ! 

If but for this our stained souls were shriven. 

Nay ; let me carry on the heights no longer. 

Round purer heart I wrap the pilgrim dress ; 
In purer touch the trembling staff is stronger ; 

My face is steadfast toward the wilderness, 



9 6 LABORARE EST ORARE. 

To help the helpless, strengthen those who falter, 
To lead to light the sorrowing and blind. 

To reach once more my sacred mountain altar ; 
But not to leave the weaker ones behind. 

Should such sweet grace to my rude hands be given 
To bind up wounds, to lift the stricken up ; 

Each sufferer shall see the smile of Heaven 
Outshining on him from the healing cup. 

And should I perish by the way, another 
Will surely struggle up to where I rest ; 

By mantle, scrip, and staff will know a brother, 
And, by this little cross upon my breast, 

Will know my soul has dwelt in peace up higher, 
Will take my little store of oil and wine, 

And quickened by the glow of inward fire, 

Mount e'en to heavenly heights beyond my shrine. 



But see ! the mists are fleeing while I linger, 
The distant hills have lost their rosy glow, 



LA BORA RE EST OR A RE. 97 

And underneath the touch of Day's soft finger 

Have wrapped themselves in robes of purest snow. 

I bend my head, my Father, for thy blessing : 
I go— not like the mountains — clad in white ; 

Yet falls on me, like mother's hand caressing, 
The silent benediction of the light. 
5 



9 8 MY MO THER ' S BIR TH DA Y. 



XXXVI. 
MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

JANUARY l8, 1874. 

ON THE NILE. 

SHE is lying there upon the hill-side, 
And her grave is covered by the snow-wreaths; 
Snow-white blossoms hang on all the laurels, 
And the willows bend beneath their burden, 
And the dead leaves and the earth's brown bosom 
Share with her the robe of radiant whiteness. 
She is calm and pale and very silent, 
And her hands are folded from their labor, 
And she does not hear my worn heart call her, 
"Mother, wake, and keep with me thy birthday ! " 

I am here beside the sullen river 

Whose o'erflowing made the nations mighty, 



M V A/0 THER 'S BIR THDA V. 

With the desert mountains lifting round me, 
And the wind-swept changing sands, revealing 
Day by day grave shadows, dim and somber, 
Kingly tombs that mark the desolation 
Promised in the burning words of prophets. 
Yet I lift mine eyes up to the palm-boughs, 
Waving softly by the yellow Nile bank ; 
And my soul flies swiftly from the Winter, 
Swiftly from my own hot desert pathway, 
To another land, where we, together — 
Mother of the blessed heart of patience, 
Child of wayward will and wearied spirit — 
Meet as truly as we met in birthdays 
Ere to thee had come the bliss of dying, 
Ere to me had come the grief to lose thee. 



In that land where thou art now a dweller 
Snows nor burning suns can bar our meeting, 
And the flow of an eternal river, 
And the breath of winds in banks of greenness. 
Gives me from afar a voice of Greeting - . 



99 



I OO MY MO THER ' S BIR THDA Y. 

There thou hast the palms without the desert; 
There the plains on which no blight has rested ; 
There the mounts of God that hide no secrets, 
As these hills that hide the tombs of monarchs 
And the graves of nations long since buried ; 
There thou hast the bliss of the beloved. 
Evermore I know the little children 
Come around thee with their old caressing. 
There the years slip by, and birthdays find thee 
With the pain-marks faded from thy forehead ; 
With the eyes that watched us in our childhood 
Only growing deeper, sweeter, clearer 
With the mother-love, that brings thee nearer 
All that's holy, while it holds us dearer, 
Caring even when our weak hearts wander. 

Mother, when this day was at its dawning, 

Crept I softly in the early twilight 

To thy heart, and left there all my burden ; 

And I felt the angels, who must love thee, 

Could not bring a gift thy heart would prize more 

Than the love that climbs e'en to thy heaven 



M Y MO THER 'S BIR THDA Y. 

From the spot, where, in her upward journey, 
Thine own child has lain down worn and tired. 



Sweet to thee must be celestial hymning ; 

But I know, through all the heavenly praises, 

Thou hast bent thine ear to catch my whispers ; 

Thou hast reached thy soft hand down to bless me ; 

Thou art happier in thy life of gladness 

For the mighty love thy child doth bring thee. 



:o2 A MOTHER'S QUESTION. 



XXXVII. 
A MOTHER'S QUESTION. 

I'VE sometimes wondered if the stricken woman, 
Who wept in anguish by the Crucified, 
Found in her mother nature, fond and human, 
No longing to be nearer while he died. 

Just to have held his head upon her breast, 
And loving looks and kisses showered down ; 

With burning tears, that could not be repressed, 
Scattered like jewels in his thorny crown. 

Or, if this yearning asked of God too much, 
If she would be denied a care so sweet, 

Surely she might, with tender, reverent touch, 

Have wiped the blood-drops trickling from his feet. 



Note. — The author desires to acknowledge the courtesy of 
the Galaxy, National Repository, Independent, Christian Union, 
Evening Post, and other periodicals — the original publishers of 
the foregoing poems. 



* . I 
















